The dawn harvests the deaf vanishings of the enclosed more in every age with clouded wings of feared cries
I believe the dreaming will age our words in sleeping things
with the sound of the crowd
Random syllables of sanity from my subterranean barometric life
The dawn harvests the deaf vanishings of the enclosed more in every age with clouded wings of feared cries
I believe the dreaming will age our words in sleeping things
with the sound of the crowd